Beads of Candlelight
by ImagineI
Summary: When a business acquaintance of John Thornton's arrives in Milton, how will Margaret and their marriage fare when past relationships are revealed? Love, drama, misunderstandings- here is a fanfiction that involves characters old and new. Note: This piece is not intended to mimic Elizabeth Gaskell's style.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I realise this may be horrendously anachronistic- I wrote this in twenty minutes in an effort to cast my mind away from revision, a respite from the oppression of exams.

This is from Margaret's perspective and it would be wonderful to hear (or, rather, see!) what people may think ^.^ Thank you!

* * *

He was sat, his back facing outwards, at his desk in that orange light, in the night, his fingers gripping the back of his neck. Musician's fingers, I thought, which was why violence had- on that one occassion- been that much more stupefying. His other hand was pressed on top of his head, as though he was desperately trying to halt any escaping information.

There were beads of candlelight on his black waistcoat and as I watched him roll his shoulders, they skittered and were drowned in the starched-white of his shirt-sleeves at his elbows. His movement, subtle as it was- as most of his communication had always been- ignited recollections of our wedding night.

I had caught sight of his back on that instance too, but no black had obscured his flesh then. Greys had played upon the contours in the flickering auburn from the hearth, the fire sympathising- it had seemed- with my heart.

I had to breathe deeply to regain my concentration as I stood in the courtyard, rubbing my palms in my cotton-gloves- the finest, I was proudly sure, in Milton- realigning my underskirts as I made to move, blinking the recollections away...

Like beads of candlelight on white.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello potential readers!

This piece was only meant to be a short drabble, a distraction from the drone-and-groan work of revision and exams. However, due to a particularly encouraging review from 'lovefool', I have decided to pursue this further. Thank you 'lovefool' ^.^! I was so flattered and happy to read you found promise in this.

A Warning:-

This is not intended to be an authentic continuance of Elizabeth Gaskell's novel. In no way am I attempting to mimic her voice. Therefore, henceforth etc. this fanfiction will be a puppeteering exercise of the characters from 'North & South' with (and I am aware of how heathen this sounds) significant inspiration from the televisual adaptation. 'Televisual' doesn't really detract from the fact that I am shamelessly prioritising my knowledge of the show over than the text, does it?

Sigh. Anyhoo, I've gone on long enough. I hope you, the indulgent reader(/s?), will enjoy : )

* * *

"The telegram was quite clear, Mr Bowman- I asked, respectfully, for two more orders. Two. Not twelve, nor twenty, two hundred or two thousand. Two."

There was that gravel in his voice, that quality even I flinched at. The polite, clipped tone that unsheathed a knife of thunder. I hesitated by his office door, surprised- I had expected him to be alone at this hour. In the dark, picturing Mr Bowman, I considered knocking on the door, felt an instinct to.

Tall, perhaps taller than John, and older too by perhaps three decades, Mr Bowman would be grey, experienced, bespectacled- suit the tint and texture of sand, I whimsied...

And intimidated by the relatively green Master John Thornton.

I waited, listened, a clot of fear- for Mr Bowman- in my throat. It was improbable John would lose his temper physically with this gentleman but nonetheless likely he would lose his patience, to his own disadvantage and discredit. My instinct to knock intensified, for both men's sakes.

"Despite my order, you have arrived with no receipt nor any sign of a delivery. Am I to deduce-"

John was interrupted and- as Mr Bowman's voice popped up in the night like a stubborn plant in snow- so too was my breath.

"Sir, I beseech you," Mr Bowman began, but with no hint of a beg or desperation. More, a candid confidence, 'suave' as I had heard a lady in town say. He sounded significantly younger than I had gambled. I was reminded of newly polished oak and of London. "Let there be no shindy," he continued. Was he mocking John? "I have simply arrived to inform you that yes, indeed, your order was _respectfully _received but due to extensive demands upon our services-" here Mr Bowman sounded challenging and smug- "your request may be demoted. For some time."

Blind to the scene in front of me, I was still able to sense John's appearance. His jaw would be taut, formidable brow oppressing charcoal eyes.

"Mr Bowman-"

A creak, as my body leaned ever-so-slightly on the floorboards.

"I believe that is my signal to leave," Mr Bowman declared, happily. The screech of a chair concealed my gasp as I tried to think where to go fast enough so they would not see me. "You have another visitor. Good evening."

Three steps, three heartbeats as I considered standing in the corner shadows by the stairs, a breath-

The door swung open as I looked to my left, to a friendly curve in the wall that might have hidden me. I looked up, John's black-and-white sitting figure blurring into the clementine candlelight.

I found myself pinned to Mr Bowman's eyes, to the Hellstone-sky-blue that burst inside wide almonds. Rich, tawny hair thrived atop his long, warm face. He was suited in green with an audacious yellow neck-scarf.

"William..." I breathed out, uncontrollably. Vaguely, I saw John stand up and walk over to us.

"Miss Hale," William Bowman spoke, lowly, taking my hand and bringing it to his smile. "You look... hale..." A gold-threaded eyebrow arched as I took my hand gingerly away.

"Margaret," John spoke, the pang of worry in his voice- - or was it hurt?- just covered by curiosity, reeling me back to him. They were stood right next to eachother now, John and William, hauntingly exactly the same height. But whilst verve vivified William, exhaustion was dug under my husband's eyes. I felt an instant yearning to catch him, comfort him, feed him well and see him warmly to bed...

But that would have done him more harm than good- already mocked and belittled by William, John hardly needed my cosseting. I was struck- unnaturally then- with a recollection of a couple of mornings ago.

John had been sat at the breakfast table in the white morning light, collar undone as he read the broadsheets, a spoon of boiled egg halfway to his mouth. It had entertained me endlessly, though I kept quiet as I stood in the doorway, unnoticed. Such calm, distinction and youth in the man I had married, a man- I sometimes regretted- only I saw. Still warmed by a night spent cosily beside one another in our marriage bed, I wandered over to him and draped my arms around his shoulders from behind, a little nervous as I did so. He had reacted so pleasantly, breathing out that low beat of a laugh, then turning his cheek and pressing his lips to the inside of my wrist. It had felt like stars were twinkling under my skin.

"Margaret," John repeated, harsher. Snapped out of my reverie, I blinked and smiled at him, feeling faint.

"John, I-I-"

"Christian names?" William interrupted, amusedly. John glared subtly at him and put his hands on his waist.

"William-"

"You know Mr Bowman, Margaret?" There was an edge to John's voice that ignited a quick-flow of all that had just occurred. I realised how my reaction to William may have been falsely perceived.

"I know him from-"

"We grew up together."


	3. Chapter 3

Hello potential readers!

This piece was only meant to be a short drabble, a distraction from the drone-and-groan work of revision and exams. However, due to a particularly encouraging review from 'lovefool', I have decided to pursue this further. Thank you 'lovefool' ^.^! I was so flattered and happy to read you found promise in this.

A Warning:-

This is not intended to be an authentic continuance of Elizabeth Gaskell's novel. In no way am I attempting to mimic her voice. Therefore, henceforth etc. this fanfiction will be a puppeteering exercise of the characters from 'North & South' with (and I am aware of how heathen this sounds) significant inspiration from the televisual adaptation. 'Televisual' doesn't really detract from the fact that I am shamelessly prioritising my knowledge of the show over than the text, does it?

Sigh. Anyhoo, I've gone on long enough. I hope you, the indulgent reader(/s?), will enjoy : ) Please let me know!

* * *

"Grew up... together," John repeated. I could tell by that flicker of black eyebrow and drop of one hand that this news bewildered him somewhat.

"It has been years!" I was quick to assure, agitated by William- Mr Bowman's inappropriate familiarity with me.

"Time has not been a stone to the spring, though, it seems, _Margaret_," John bit out, turning away with a hand to his brow. I sighed, felt my jaw clench as my patience was stirred. John was tired, overtired- care must be taken.

I pursed my lips and stared Mr Bowman right in the eye.

"Though I cannot say it is not a shock to see you-" I was careful to utter no name to him- "I feel I must remind you I am no longer the pastor's daughter to be..." John turned around, predatorily eyeing the still unmoved Mr Bowman. I 'changed tack', as I had heard Nicholas say. "I have grown now, as have you," I said with a friendly smile. Mr Bowman held his hands behind his back and continued to stare and smile down at me, most disconcertingly. John rolled down his shirt sleeves, an uneasy silence coming over the office. I strongly desired undoing the knot of my hat-ribbon from under my chin. I watched John turn off the gas lamps and blow out the candles, strangely affected by the terseness of his movements.

"I can see you-"

"Come," John sliced through Mr Bowman's speech, swiftly moving towards me then unhooking and donning his coat from behind the door. "_Mrs Thornton_. Time to be home."

I was at a complete loss for what to say as John's hand took my arm and steered me away. I found myself strangely drawn to Mr Bowman's reaction to my married name.

"As you say, Mr Bowman, this is your signal to leave," John announced, handing him a velvety green top-hat with a wine-red bow.

Mr Bowman turned, blinked and smiled faintly at John before taking the hat from him. He stepped out of the doorway, allowing John to lock it.

"Good evening to you both, Mr and Mrs Thornton," he spoke from the top of the stairs, touching the rim of his hat at the floor more than us before being consumed by the darkness, his footsteps echoing away.

I found myself quite frozen, a little dizzy. I looked up at John, only to find him glaring forward, his black top-hat now atop his head and an alarming intensity in his face. His nose slit sharply down his profile like a bird of prey's and his eyes were obsidian, shadows of stubble on his jaw and cheeks.

"John, I-"

John offered the crook of his arm to me and I settled my arm in his.

It was a short walk to our home, but two minutes from his family home and ten from where I had lived with my dear parents. We moved in silence, save for the strong chop of John's footsteps on the pavement and the soft rustle of my dress. I did not feel rushed but all the same, John's whole demeanour hurried me to be home.

Once Dixon- who had affectionately returned to me as soon as John and I had married three months ago- let us in, John took off his coat and hat, requested a pot of tea from Dixon, with notable charm and grace, kissed me on the cheek and left for his study. All the while, I still stood in my hat and coat, rather dumbfounded.

"You do not seem well, Miss Hale," Dixon murmured, helping me out of my coat. I blinked myself out of a daze and smiled at Dixon. It was always comforting to be near her.

"I am tired, that is all. So is Mr Thornton."

"Has there been bickering?" she asked, softly. I looked at her, though my mind was on the evening's events. Absentmindedly I studied the green-leaf wallpaper and white trimmings, turning my eyes to the high staircase John had just ascended. Without a word, I ascended them too, speeding to John's study three doors along the hallway. A blurred rendition of the white, short-sleeved dress I wore with a modest green sash blew past the mirror.

I knocked at John's door with no hesitation.

"Come in, Dix-" I pushed the door open and stepped inside. John was sat at his desk, slumped in his chair, though he sat up straight as he saw me. "Margaret-"

"I sincerely hope I did not disservice you by my response to Mr Bowman," I spoke, barely trying to hide my passion as I closed the door. "It was, as I said, a shock to see someone from so long ago. But if ever I am to act with such discourtesy and scorn with one of your acquaintances make sure I am sorely reprimanded!"

Incredulity animated John's face as he turned in his seat and inclined his head, as he was prone to do in challenge.

"Discourtesy and scorn? Me? I acted with all that was to be expected, what with my wife absorbed so in another man, quite coincidentally a man who had- you should know- acted with more discourtesy than-"

"I was not absorbed!" I interjected. John rose from his seat as I moved to the fireplace.

"You could have been a schoolgirl for all that blushing!"

"I was-"

"Shocked, yes, you said."

We glared at one another and I found my parents' spirits hovering behind John, quiet and disapproving of my passion and volume. I took a deep breath- why was I arguing with John when I knew full-well how Mr Bowman had spoken to and treated him? Why had I accused him so? Rationality befell me as I finally realised I was annoyed: the night had not played out as I had planned when I had left the house almost an hour ago. I walked over to John.

"Let me make clear one thing before your imagination plagues you." John huffed and turned, folding his arms. I touched my hand to his shoulder- felt the warmth of his skin and strength beneath the cotton-and placed a hand on the side of his strangely cold face. John's brow relaxed a smidgen. "He was an arrogant, self-centred peacock when I was eleven as he still is- I am sure- now. More than anything, his apparition incited thoughts of my brother... they were playfellows."

John blinked twice and his eyes slid towards me, though his body did not move. My fingers stroked down his arm and he inhaled as I moved to stand in front of him. It would be more effective to show John my supreme estimation of him than try to convey it in words. We had found an affinity in the language I was sure had been designed in Heaven and gifted incrementally to each mortal by God.

I smiled into John's heavy eyes, pressed my thumbs between his crossed brows, almost imperceptibly nudging my nose towards him, and eased a smile from him. His hands flew gently up to mine, fingers delicately enclosing them before trailing down my forearms as my fingers explored and curled the luxurious black hair at the nape of his neck. He bowed his head and exhaled with a faint groan of relief, his forehead kissing mine.

"I am sorry," he whispered, his breath warming my nose. I smiled.

"You are exhausted," I absolved, hardly able to hide my instinctual glee at observing his jealousy. It was not something I should revel in, I'm sure my mother would remind me, but the security and specialness I felt was... no words could aptly describe it.

A newly familiar quality of silence embraced us, our closeness inevitably reminding us both of what could pass so joyfully between us.

I was nested in John's arms, wonderfully toasty by his chest- a proud specimen- rapt in his divinely measured muse of a kiss when Dixon knocked on the door. John exhaled in his throat and brushed his cheek over mine as he reluctantly called.

"Come in, Dixon!"

We shared a smile as we parted.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello potential readers!

Thank you for the favouriting and following, it's so warming and encouraging!

This piece was only meant to be a short drabble, a distraction from the drone-and-groan work of revision and exams. However, due to a particularly encouraging review from 'lovefool', I have decided to pursue this further. Thank you 'lovefool' ^.^! I was so flattered and happy to read you found promise in this.

A Warning:-

This is not intended to be an authentic continuance of Elizabeth Gaskell's novel. In no way am I attempting to mimic her voice. Therefore, henceforth etc. this fanfiction will be a puppeteering exercise of the characters from 'North & South' with (and I am aware of how heathen this sounds) significant inspiration from the televisual adaptation. 'Televisual' doesn't really detract from the fact that I am shamelessly prioritising my knowledge of the show over than the text, does it?

Sigh. Anyhoo, I've gone on long enough. I hope you, the indulgent reader(/s?), will enjoy : ) Please let me know!

* * *

There were still nerves when we dressed and prepared for bed.

Strangely, I was in bed first that night. Normally, I would stand sheepishly behind the Japanese screen which concealed me as I dressed, which would then birth me from the corner for a tense pause. John would look up from his accounts or some classic tome of philosophy or theology. Time would freeze, then I would pull myself together and swift myself to bed. We read, then he'd put a hand on my cheek or hand, ask if I was finished and either way he would kiss me just on the side of my nose, leaving the light on or turning it off depending.

This was refreshing.

We'd had supper in good spirits- lamb, potatoes, green beans, a lovely red from France, I believe- then John had returned to his office, whilst I'd opted for bed. Another evening, I may have helped Dixon, or caught up with my correspondence, checked our stock lists or planned the next charity-meet with the local church. But the evening had exhausted me, not least because William Bowman's unprecedented apparition had dropped a stone of foreboding into my stomach that I could not shift.

John's amusing scorn of the Japanese screen distracted me momentarily.

"I don't think I can justify dressing behind that," he spoke, lips curled in cynicism and teasing.

"You chose it for me!" I protested from the bed, finishing off a plait and scrunching my cold toes under the blankets. "It's beautiful, those swans, the reeds... such silk is..."

"Befitting," he finished my sentence, setting me straight before I could criticise his expense. "For a _woman_ to dress behind, mind you." Shirt untucked and black trousers rumpled, he was holding his nightgown in front of him as though in defence, the light from the gas-lamps dyeing his cotton-white skin with orange cordial. He questioned me with his eyes and a provocative smile. It was unreal how well we could communicate without words.

"I shan't look if you don't want me to," I said quietly, smiling and glancing away.

He inhaled and considered his principles. I stayed still, smiling.

Then, he turned around and lifted off his shirt.

I felt a jolt and shiver as my sight swooped to John's back, tugged by some cosmic thread. He was stood so still as though modelling for me, a statue for my own observation. Flesh, muscle and bone rippled in tone, subtle yet dramatic. Strong shoulder-bones reminded me of premature angel's wings and the taper of his black hair fed into the pleasantly curving line of his spine, so shaped like a cello or the like that I was reminded again of the musicality of his features.

The monument of my husband moved all of a sudden but with far more rapidity. The trousers were down and off- along with the undergarments- before I could blush and his nightgown thrown over him before I could blink the knowledge of his form away.

He took a deep breath and pivoted around to gage my reaction.

I was staring down into my lap, skin hot and refreshed with tingles, embarrassed by my yearning. What was worse- in the best sense, of course- was that he could tell.

He got under the covers and exhaled with a sort of poignancy as he watched me.

"I would have you know every part of me, such is my trust and love for you."

I could barely breathe or swallow for the overwhelming depth of my emotion. His richly blended voice, that spoke in tone and cadence with my heart; his presence, that settled in me both an alertness and a peace; even the scent of him, John, like black pepper and wood and dark berries- all this I could not yet express to him. I instead blinked into my lap and forced a swallow as his fingers trailed from my ear to under my jaw and he placed a soft, light kiss on my lips, coming away gradually.

I rested a hand on his cheek, thumb grazing against the stubble, and found myself biting the inside of my lower lip. His warm, dusky eyes hypnotised me.

Mr Bowman was forgotten... but a sense of foreboding was still lodged patiently inside me.


End file.
